


nun, gimel, gay, shin

by mariuscourf



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Fluff, Getting Together, Hanukkah, Jewish Grantaire, M/M, Sassy Enjolras, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, grantaire is a chaotic jewish stoner, holiday fic, i cannot emphasize how much banter there is, it is all i know how to write, jewish enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariuscourf/pseuds/mariuscourf
Summary: It's the first night of Hanukkah, and everyone has left campus for winter break.(Except for Enjolras and Grantaire, obviously.)
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 65





	nun, gimel, gay, shin

**Author's Note:**

> All I want for Hanukkah is fluffy Jewish fanfiction, so here we are.
> 
> For context and to save you Hanukkah-related googling: section headers are in Ladino, which is a combo of Spanish and Hebrew. The Hebrew letters on a dreidel + corresponding meanings are nun (nothing), gimel (take everything), hay (take half), and either shin or pay (put one in). You usually play with gelt, or chocolate coins. A chanukkiah is the type of candle-holder you use during Hanukkah, commonly called a menorah– chanukkiahs have nine branches, menorahs only have seven (yes, I was that kid in Hebrew school).

_una_ :

From across his kitchen table, a bag of gelt stared Grantaire in the face. He was pretty sure it had expired a few years ago, but the university’s Jewish Student Union was handing them out, and Grantaire wasn’t one to resist free food. And it’s not like a dusty parket of chocolate coins could go bad, anyway, or at least do worse damage to his body than all the other shit he’d done to it in the past three and a half years of college.

According to the barrage of texts from his roommates wishing him a happy holiday, it was the first night of Hanukkah. They had gone home for winter break a week ago– most of his friends had gone home for winter break, their college campus had turned into a ghost town. Which was fine; Grantaire was more than happy to curl up on the couch, scrolling through twitter and watching Seinfeld reruns on the ancient TV that Joly had scored off Craigslist and thoroughly sanitized, the screen cracked in the corner from a game of indoor frisbee back in junior year. (Joly banned indoor frisbee in the apartment after that. Technically, Bossuet and Grantaire no longer played indoor frisbee, they just played a game that suspiciously involved throwing a frisbee indoors, but also now involved a nerf gun, two yoga balls, and an increasingly complicated series of moves Bossuet picked up from his Zumba class.)

Campus may have been a ghost town, but whoever lived directly above him was still there, stomping away at all hours of the night and shouting through walls. Grantaire couldn’t make out many words– something about individual liberties, or maybe mythical river tees (probably the former, but he hoped his neighbor was actually like, running a clothing company for water nymphs or something). He grabbed the nerf gun from its usual spot next to the couch, and fired a few shots upwards, the foam bullets suction-cup-ing to his ceiling. No response, just the continued sounds of someone pacing.

Grantaire would join in on the pacing, but his apartment was still a mess from last week’s holiday party. Yesterday, he tried walking from his bed to the bathroom barefoot in the dark, and scratched his foot up on some surprisingly spiky mistletoe. (The party itself had consisted of a lot of Courfeyrac pelting Marius with mistletoe leaves and then running over to kiss his roommate, and mistletoe wasn’t Grantaire’s thing– he hadn’t so much as even watched a Christmas movie until Jehan sat him down the year prior for a _Die Hard_ marathon– but was pretty sure throwing mistletoe at your roommate was not how that specific tradition worked. But then again, what would Grantaire know about tradition? He had helped Feuilly sneak some _Fiddler on the Roof_ on the party playlist, although Tevye didn’t have much to say about Christmas.) And with Joly and Bossuet gone, there was nothing stopping him from leaving dirty clothes and empty takeout containers all over.

 _Something something tax code something_ , upstairs said, getting louder. Grantaire still couldn’t tell who it was and although there were a finite amount of people on campus over winter break who would be talking about civil liberties and the tax code, he didn’t think any of them lived in this building.

It was the first night of Hanukkah, and Grantaire was hitting his ceiling with a broom.

Happy holidays to him.

  
  


_dos_ :

“-and it’s a holiday about fighting assimilation we celebrate by assimilating,” Enjolras said into his phone.

“I asked if you knew that Grantaire was still on campus,” Courfeyrac sighed.

“Oh! Tell R I say hi!”a muffled voice shouted into the phone line.

“Is that Pontmercy?” Enjolras asked.

“He came home with me for break. Listen, you should text him. Or don’t, because you suck at texting–”

“Sorry for not wanting a _digital record that anyone can find_ of my conversation history.”

“Enjolras, that’s not how texting works,” Combeferre said.

“No one’s reading your texts while also not recording your conference calls.” Courfeyrac pointed out. “But for real, Joly told Musichetta who told Cosette who told Marius who told me who is now telling y’all that Grantaire is going slightly crazy alone.”

“Everyone left a week ago.”

“A week can be a long time,” Combeferre said. “And we don’t know that campus _hasn’t_ turned into a temporal anomaly since leaving.”

So after Combeferre described a cat he saw on a walk earlier and Courfeyrac recounted a slightly weird moment he had with Pontmercy (which Enjolras didn’t not care about, because Courfeyrac was one of his best friends, but the first time Marius met Enjolras, he described himself as “socially liberal, fiscally conservative” and while Courfeyrac swears he’s not an idiot anymore, Enjolras has a really hard time letting that go), Enjolras scrolled to Grantaire’s contact in his phone and started pacing around his apartment again. What do you text to a friend of a friend who you don’t think likes you very much, at least based off of the amount of time he spends picking all of your arguments apart and insulting your ideals?

He was overthinking this. And wearing out the school-issued beige carpet. Whoever lived below him certainly agreed, judging by the knocking on the ceiling.

Wait. Grantaire lived below him.

_Is that a broom?_

_in my pocket?_

_nah I’m just happy to see you_

_also wtf are you psychic_

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_who taught u that_

_was it courfeyrac_

_i bet it was courfeyrac_

_Jehan, actually._

_no but for real_

_how did u know I was holding a broom_

_It’s loud._

_ok don’t tell me_

_Happy Hanukkah, Grantaire._

_didn’t think u believed in happiness_

  
  
  


_tres_ :

_What time are you lighting candles tonight?_

Screw the oil lasting for eight nights, getting an unprompted text from Enjolras was the true Hanukkah miracle.

The most he had done for any sort of Hanukkah celebration the year prior was get high– because if you don’t have any candles, a joint will suffice, right? He was pretty sure his childhood rabbi would agree– and fail at making latkes from a boxed mix, because even that required more kitchen skills than he had. But hey, 5781-era Grantaire was a new man.

_now I guess?_

_Do you want company?_

_the 2006 revival? literally always._

_On my way_

Oy vey. Sure enough, seconds later, Enjolras was knocking on Grantaire’s apartment door.

“Happy Hanukkah,” he said.

“Damn, no coat?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras gave him a weird look. “It’s not like it was a far walk.” Come to think of it, Grantaire didn’t actually know where Enjolras lived. Somewhere on-campus, probably alone. “Are you going to invite me in?”

“What are you, a vampire? Wait. Pale, I’ve never seen you eat garlic, probably sparkles in sunlight…”

“Since when do vampires sparkle in sunlight?”

“Dude. Twilight?”

Enjolras shook his head. “That poorly-written Mormon propaganda?”

“Shut up, that movie was my bisexual awakening.”

“So can I come in, or…”

“Whatever, man.” Grantaire said. Enjolras stared. “Alright, whatever, come on in. Make yourself at home.”

“Still haven’t cleaned up the party last week?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire just shrugged. “It’s a political statement.” Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Okay I, uh, think I have a menorah somewhere.” There was a 50/50 chance; Grantaire had lots of junk he kept meaning to go through.

“Chanukkiah,” Enjolras corrected. He had Combeferre’s NPR tote slung over his shoulder, and pulled out his own candle holder and two candles.

“Same diff,” Grantaire said.

“I’m assuming you have a lighter?” Enjolras asked, arranging the candles.

“Was that supposed to be a stoner jab, because you could do a lot better than that.”

“Grantaire, when you smoke, I can smell it _from my apartment_ ,” Enjolras sighed. “But, um, no; Courfeyrac confiscated all my lighters and matches after I threatened to burn the dean’s office down,” he muttered.

“What was that last part?” Grantaire smirked.

“Threatened to burn the dean’s office down,” Enjolras said.

“Yeah that sounds about right,” Grantaire said under his breath.

“Just– do you have a lighter or not?”

“Well, yeah. Glad I could provide _something_.” Grantaire walked over to the fridge. “Wine?” Then: “Shit, I’m out.”

“How often does that happen?” Enjolras cocked an eyebrow.

“You know, if you don’t have something nice to say, you don’t have to say anything at all.”

“Where would that leave us, then?”

Damn, Enjolras was cutting Grantaire down to his core today.

“Wanna get some?”

“Now?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire nodded. “You know, the corner store a block away? Come on, it’s Hanukkah.”

“If you say so.”

_kuatro_ :

Grantaire had given Enjolras a jacket. “I can run and get one, it’s okay,” Enjolras had protested. 

“Dude, I’m not making you walk back to your apartment.”

“You don’t know where I live, do you?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire shook his head. So he had no idea that Enjolras was the one stomping away at all hours of the night, which was probably a good thing if Enjolras wanted to keep the night as civil as possible. So there he was, wrapped in a hoodie three sizes too big, waiting for the streetlight to change.

“Fuck the police,” Grantaire said, running across the road anyway.

“Yes, but _there’s a car coming_ ,” Enjolras sighed. “And train tracks.”

“If it’s a good enough way for Margaret Mitchell to die, it’s good enough for me.”

“Are you really saying you want to be compared to Margaret Mitchell?” Enjolras recoiled.

“Come on, there’s like no one here.”

Enjolras looked both ways (twice), but by the time he was ready to sprint across the busy road, the light had changed anyway.

“Square,” Grantaire joked.

“Circle. Triangle. Do you need more examples of shapes, or?”

“Come on, I want to get back before it starts snowing.”

The corner store itself was pretty tiny, walls lined with beer and wine and a few shelves in the middle consisting of odd, organic, bourgeois snacks, because gentrification was alive and well in their college town, much to Enjolras’s dismay. 

“Sup,” Grantaire nodded to the man behind the counter as he picked out a bottle. “This good?”

“As long as it’s not Manischewitz,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire laughed. “Good luck finding that in goyishe county here.”

The guy behind the counter gave Enjolras and Grantaire a weird look, but checked them out without any questions.

_sintyu_ :

By the time they emerged from the corner store, the snow had started.

“Think you’ll survive the cold?” Grantaire asked.

“Somehow, I’ll manage,” Enjolras replied. Which is too bad, because Grantaire could think of a few ways to warm Enjolras up.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Grantaire’s ears were pierced with the sound of a train whistle. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

“I thought you could handle the cold,” Enjolras said.

“ _Shut up_.”

“What, am I ruining your street cred?”

Grantaire didn’t think he actually had any street cred to begin with, but decided to not tell Enjolras that. He walked over to a nearby bench and slumped down. “C’mon, we’re gonna be here a while.”

It took all the self-restraint Grantaire had to not brush the snow out of Enjolras’s hair as he sat down.

“When you woke up today, did you know that Hanukkah started tonight?” Enjolras asked.

“Dude, when I wake up, I don’t even know where I am.”

“You should probably see someone about that.”

“Eh,” Grantaire said. “But nope, didn’t know until Joly and Bossuet texted, insert all your jabs about me dumb here.”

“I didn’t know until Courfeyrac told me,” Enjolras admitted.

“I mean, it’s a fake holiday.” A fake holiday that somehow prompted Enjolras to want to spend time with him.

“Yeah.”

Grantaire pulled the neck of the wine bottle out from its paper bag. “Want some?”

“You can’t wait ten minutes until we get back to your apartment?” Enjolras said, his teeth chattering.

“It’ll warm you up.”

“I truly don’t think that’s how it works,” Enjolras said, but grabbed the bottle from Grantaire anyway. “Please don’t tell anyone I’m drinking wine on a street corner.”

Grantaire laughed. “And tarnish your golden reputation? Never.”

A quarter bottle later, the train finally finished passing by. “You ready for one-eighth of a fake holiday?” Grantaire stood up.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

_sej_ :

“Hopefully whatever asshole lives upstairs has tired themselves out by now,” Grantaire said as he unlocked his apartment door.

Enjolras had a notoriously bad poker face, and an equally bad ability to keep his mouth shut. _Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything._ “I’m sure he doesn’t _mean_ to do anything.”

“He?” Grantaire asked. “Look at you, assuming gender.” The apartment door swung open, and Enjolras followed Grantaire inside. “Alright, let’s do this.”

“Have you had dinner yet?” Enjolras asked.

“Does instant ramen at 4pm count?”

“I have leftover Chinese.”

“Sure, run back however far, I’ll take it.”

Still wrapped in Grantaire’s sweatshirt, Enjolras slipped away, walking as quietly as he could– did he really walk _that_ loudly? Shout things _that_ often? Okay, there was a reason he hadn’t had a roommate since freshman year, when Jehan had almost strangled him after one-too-many early morning run-throughs for his public speaking class.

“That was fast,” Grantaire said when Enjolras returned with the takeout boxes. Enjolras just shrugged. The chanukkiah and candles were set up, a table set with plates stolen from the dining hall, stolen plastic cups filled with wine.

“I live pretty close.”

“Upstairs guy was back to stomping for a second.”

Maybe Enjolras should invest in a new pair of shoes, one that wouldn’t annoy the entire building. (Or maybe the floors were just really echo-y. It was definitely the floors. Right?)

“That’s a nice coincidence. Are we ready to light candles, now?”

“Changing the subject now, are we?” Grantaire took a sip of his wine.

“I can pull up the blessings on my phone,” Enjolras said.

“Alright, let’s light this place up,” Grantaire grinned.

_siete_ :

“Damn, _nun_ again?” Grantaire frowned as the dreidel landed, looking over at Enjolras’s pile of chocolate coins. “Aren’t you supposed to be into redistributing the wealth?”

Enjolras tossed a piece of gelt in Grantaire’s direction. “Spin again, then.”

“Shit, _shin_ ,” Grantaire said, shrugging his flannel off.

“What’re you doing?” Enjolras asked.

“I’m out of gelt,” Grantaire smirked.

“Oh, so this is _strip_ dreidel now?”

“Nah, strip dreidel is when you take off your clothes for a _gimel_ ,” Grantaire explained.

“Good, because it’s cold.”

Enjolras was still wearing Grantaire’s hoodie. Enjolras, who most likely lived directly upstairs, was still wearing Grantaire’s hoodie. “You look cozy.”

“Everyone looks cozy around candles,” Enjolras said, which was objectively true.

“Marius doesn’t.” 

Last year, Marius had singed off an eyebrow in a candle-lighting accident, it was a sight to behold.

Enjolras snorted. “What are you trying to say?”

“That you look cozy wearing my hoodie, that’s all.”

“As you’ve pointed out so many times, it’s cold outside.”

“You still have snow in your hair. How do you still have snow in your hair?” Grantaire asked. 

Enjolras just shrugged, and grabbed the dreidel. “ _Gimel_.”

“I think you have to put my flannel on now.”

Enjolras grabbed the shirt off the table. “Sorry you suck at dreidel.”

“Are you kidding?” Grantaire asked. “You’re sitting on my apartment floor, wearing my clothes. I can handle losing out on some chocolate.” Really, he was expecting to wake up from this fever dream anytime now.

“Here,” Enjolras pushed half his pile over. “I’m redistributing the wealth.”

“Redistribute your tap-dancing on my ceiling,” Grantaire said.

“I’m not tap-dancing.”

Ha, Grantaire got him. “So it _is_ you.”

“Oh, is it?”

Enjolras was still wearing his hoodie. Enjolras was low-key joking with him. What in the world was happening? Grantaire grabbed the dreidel. “ _Gimel_ or _hay_ and you tell me.” Shit, another _shin_ , was this dreidel weighted or something? Was the campus Jewish Student Union purposefully handing out weighted dreidels with the specific intention of getting Grantaire to keep flirting with Enjolras, because if so, he might have to send them a thank-you. Or an angry letter; he wasn’t sure yet.

“ _Shin_ means you have to tell me something, right?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire sighed, and took another gulp of his wine. “Okay, my thing is that it’s fucking infuriating finding out that the guy driving me crazy upstairs is the same guy who’s driving me crazy everywhere else in my life.”

“Driving you crazy?”

“No, you’re gonna have to spin for that one,” Grantaire slid the dreidel across the table.

Enjolras, with his perfect dreidel luck, landed on a _hay_. “I’m driving you crazy.”

“Yes, and now you’re seeing it live and in action!” Grantaire sighed. “Just like, I genuinely cannot tell if you like me or not, I mean not in a like-like way, _fuck_ please forget that I ever just said like-like because we’re twenty-one, not twelve, but like. You fight me, all the time–”

“ _You_ fight me,” Enjolras corrected.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.” Grantaire grabbed the dreidel back.

“No, you’re not done talking.”

“Sorry, I thought we were doing high school debate rules, three minutes per side.”

“Funny. So I’m driving you crazy?”

“Like, maybe,” Grantaire muttered.

_ocho_ :

“I didn’t think you even liked me,” Enjolras admitted.

Grantaire burst out laughing. “ _Funny_.”

Enjolras was missing something. “I thought you knew I lived right above you,” he said.

“Dude, I’ve never been to your apartment.”

“It’s a small school, come on.”

Grantaire shrugged. “See this is weird, because I’m usually so good at figuring out knowing where you are,” he slapped a hand over his mouth. “Not in a creepy way, just in an you’re-impossible-not-to-notice way..”

“Because you’re so against everything I’m fighting for?”

“No, uh, because you’re hot,” Grantaire said, downing the rest of his wine. “Fuckin’ statue of a Greek god over here.”

“I like you,” Enjolras said. “Not just because you’re a good ego-booster on superficial matters such as, err, looking like a statue of a Greek god–”

“You’re still wearing my clothes.”

“Sorry, do you want them back?”

“Fucking dense as a block of marble,” Grantaire muttered. “Enjolras, just think long and hard about _why_ you might be driving me crazy.”

Loudly pacing, practicing every speech at full volume multiple times, having ideals and sticking to them– _oh_.

Enjolras moved closer to Grantaire. “Can I,”

“Take the rest of my gelt? Never talk to me again? Come on, give me something to work with here–”

Enjolras kissed him.

And for a second, he was ready to retreat back upstairs and never so much as look at Grantaire again, because Grantaire was frozen solid and maybe it was just the wine and the snow outside and the Hanukkah candles and–

Grantaire kissed back. _Boy_ , did Grantaire kiss back.

Maybe Hanukkah wasn’t such a fake holiday after all.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the Hoes for Enjolras (especially CX and Malin) for beta-ing.
> 
> Margaret Mitchell really did die from jaywalking, a fact I reference just about every time someone calls me out for jaywalking. (which I should probably stop doing– jaywalking, not referencing Margaret Mitchell.)
> 
> Happy Hanukkah y'all!


End file.
